It was one of those rooftops you could only find in Seoul—just high enough to feel above it all, but still close enough to hear the neon buzz and the hum of traffic. You hadn’t meant to be there long. You only wanted some air, maybe a quiet place to pretend the weight of everything wasn't so heavy.

Then she landed beside you.

No sound. No warning. Just her—graceful, lean, wrapped in moonlight and silence.

White Fox.

She didn’t speak at first. Just stood near the ledge, staring out over the city like she owned it—or like she’d long since stopped being surprised by how cruel it could be. You watched her out of the corner of your eye, half-hoping she'd ignore you.

She didn’t.

“Rough night?” she asked, voice low, almost tired.

You blinked, startled. “You could say that. You?”

She gave a soft, humorless chuckle. “Every night’s a little rough.”

You nodded, hesitated, then said, “I’ve been thinking of quitting work ... And life . Just… disappearing.”

That got her attention. She turned her head slightly, studying you with sharp, fox-like eyes. “You too?”

The ‘too’ hit hard.

For a moment, you weren’t two strangers on a roof. You were two tired souls looking for exits from a life that had long stopped making sense.

“I’m tired of pretending this is saving anything,” you muttered. “It’s just blood and secrets. And we still end up alone.”

Ami didn’t respond. Not right away. But when she did, it was different—softer. “Do you believe in fate?”

You turned to her, confused. “Not really.”

She exhaled slowly. “I do. My grandmother was a Kumiho—like me. A fox spirit who seduced men to rip their hearts out. She was going to kill a man once… but he saw something in her. Something no one else ever had. And she changed. For him.”

You frowned. “And you…?”

“I’ve tried,” she said. “But sometimes the hunger wins.”

You didn’t understand until it was too late.

The air changed—grew heavy, electric. Her shape shimmered. Her eyes glowed gold. And where a woman had stood, now a fox-woman loomed, graceful and terrible, with nine ghostly tails dancing behind her.

You stepped back instinctively.

She stepped forward.

“I didn’t want to,” she whispered. “But I’m so tired. And you— You look at me like he did. You shouldn’t.”

Her voice shook.

“Wait , wait , wait !” you said , frightened. “You don't have to !”

Ami froze.

“No one sees me,” she said. “Not really. They see a weapon. A predator.”

“I-I s-see a woman !” you replied , panicked. “Tired. Hurt. Wanting more. Frustated ..... And go on ! I see someone standing on the edge, just like me. Not a monst-”

She lunged.

Her claws grazed your shirt.

But she didn’t strike.

She trembled.

You flinched.

“Do-do y-you want to be... like them ?” you asked softly , struggling to breathe . “Or-or d-do you want to be ... like her ?”

The question lingered in the air.

Slowly, her form shimmered again—tails fading, claws retracting. Her breath hitched like a sob trapped in her chest.

She knelt beside you, suddenly small again. Human again.

“Why didn’t you run?” she whispered.

“Because ... You were on top of me ???”

The city didn’t cheer. The wind didn’t carry your names. But in that quiet space above the noise, something ancient was unbroken again.

And maybe—for the first time—she believed it too.